


Dark Calls to Dark

by orphan_account



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Drabble, M/M, Mild Gore, Violence, fragment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2558051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciel is a child out of his mind. Sebastian is the servant cursed to care for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Calls to Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr as a drabble; a fragment of an idea for an AU-ish darkfic. There is more to this, but it's largely in bits and pieces. When I put them all together I might re-post as a longer, more complete piece, but posting for now as part of my personal Post Something To AO3 Every Week challenge, lol.

When Ciel sleeps, he has the same dream, over and over.

In it, he is no longer cursed with the frailty of childhood. He is tall, strong and broad as his father had been, and so powerful, so full of righteous strength, that no man can take him. He is an entity of his own here; can bring down the wrath of heaven with just a thought, reducing all who had sought to destroy him to ashes.

His hands become hellish flames if he wills them so, his fingernails to razor sharp claws, teeth to vicious fangs. The scent of blood surrounds him, and fills him with such joy he is sure he never understood the true meaning of the word until now. His own laughter rings in his ears, growing louder and more manic as he cuts a bloody path through bodies and darkness to get to  _him_.

The man releases a bone-chilling scream when he sees Ciel, and cowers as if Ciel is some hideous fiend. Ciel cackles louder when the man attempts to up and scramble away from him; Ciel is omnipresent here, and there is nowhere for the man to escape, nowhere to hide from him.

Fiercely Ciel advances, languid at first, then pounces like a lion on a gazelle, relishing the sensation of claws breaching flesh with the ease of a knife through butter. Each howl of pain is music to Ciel’s ears, sending waves of bliss throughout his being. The man’s blood trickles down Ciel’s forearm, hot and sticky and filling Ciel’s nostrils with the thick, coppery scent of it and, surrounded by death, the mutilated body parts of his enemies, Ciel is finally at peace.

The transition between sleep and waking is like a gossamer curtain, thin and incomplete. Still Ciel can smell the blood, hear the man’s screams inside his head, even as that peace slips from him like water through his palms. He holds a hand up in front of his eyes, foolishly disappointed when he notes there are no blood-dipped claws – just the same tiny human hand that has always been there.

Fatigue never clings to him; Ciel sits up in bed, alert as he’d been before falling asleep, and glances at the carved clock ticking on the wall. It is 4:36am, a slight improvement upon the night before, but only just. The room is dark but for the flame of a single candle flickering in the sconce; it is over an hour before dawn, and there is nothing to do now but stay put, and think. Strategize. Fantasize about the impending death of the man whose face he sees in his dreams, night after night.

Ciel lets his head fall against the headboard, and stares up at the ceiling, pulling the coverlet up to his chin. He waits for Sebastian.

* * *

“Good morning, young master.” Sebastian breezes into the room as if he’d been waiting at the door for hours. He flings the curtains open and Ciel winces, mumbles something vicious about being woken too early, wanting to be left in peace.

Sebastian politely explains that he has already allowed a sleep in of half an hour; it is a beautiful, cloudless day; Ciel’s breakfast is ready, and the day’s business awaits, none of which can be done without young master. And besides, Sebastian prattles on in that clear, calm tone that always gets under Ciel’s skin: it isn’t healthy to stay in bed all day, as young master is a growing boy who must move his limbs, be in the sunlight.

Ciel scowls and pitches a small cushion at Sebastian; it hits him square in the shoulder and bounces to the floor. If Ciel’s display of insolence irks him at all, Sebastian doesn’t show it. He simply brushes his sleeve, bends to retrieve the cushion and, with a cool smirk, sets Ciel’s breakfast tray in front of him. He proceeds to go about the business of selecting the day’s outfit and leaves Ciel to his tea, as disinterested in small talk, apparently, as his master.

And just like that, the conflict has passed and the morning has begun, like every other morning before it. It is all a performance, after all. Ciel is unconcerned about sleep-ins and had been awake for hours before Sebastian woke him, staring at the ceiling so long his eyes had begun to sting. He wonders if they are bloodshot now, if Sebastian knows he hasn’t been sleeping properly, before he dismisses such thoughts like dust being swept out a door.

It is the performance that matters, for both him and Sebastian. This tiring pantomime in which Ciel is the difficult, ungrateful child and Sebastian the quietly concerned guardian. Because Ciel is certain that, in reality, Sebastian’s worry for his overall well-being is shallow at best. If it was in Sebastian’s interests to let Ciel eat dirt, then he would likely do so; but as it stands, appearances must be kept, conventions upheld. And as far as Ciel is concerned, Sebastian only poorly conceals his boredom, his distaste for Ciel and the job he is now burdened with; his bitterness at the bleakness of his own entrapment. 

He is here on a contract; Ciel’s father would have made him sign it at the very beginning of his employ, and staff contracts at the Phantomhive manor generally ranged from between three and seven years. Given Sebastian’s age, Ciel postulates that he is but one year into a seven year contract.

Seven years to care for Ciel, to see to it he reaches adulthood intact.

He is a young man; Ciel doesn’t know for certain, has never bothered to memorize the specifics, but he estimates Sebastian to be no older than twenty-one years. A young man spending the best years of his life caring for a sullen child who is not is; a young man who has been lumped with more responsibility than he likely ever intended to take on.

Ciel is his burden.

If Ciel cared for many things, he might pity him. But pity is useless, and doubtful what Sebastian wants. None of it matters, besides. Ciel will free him once the goal has been met, but for now he needs him; needs  _someone_  to take care of the mundane aspects of life; the basics necessary to keep Ciel – still for all intents and purposes a dependent, helpless child – alive and functional until his goal is complete.

After that, Ciel is unconcerned about a future that does not exist. Until then, Sebastian would tend to him, and Ciel would endure him.


End file.
